


Of All the Gin Joints

by Miaou Jones (miaoujones)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate History, Fisting, Hetalia Kink Meme, Kink Meme, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-31
Updated: 2009-07-31
Packaged: 2017-10-14 00:28:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/143320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miaoujones/pseuds/Miaou%20Jones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years after Alfred gives up being political, Matthew tracks him down to resolve the personal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of All the Gin Joints

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for [The Hetalia Kink Meme](http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com), in response to a request for isolationist!America.

Matthew pauses at the top of the shadowed stairs. There's no name or number on the building, but he thinks this must be it. It's nondescript, the kind of place you'd pass by without noticing—even looking for it, Matthew nearly missed it. A path of street lamp light slants down the middle of the stairwell and he makes his way unaided by the handrail, soles thudding softly with each downward step. His heartbeat footfalls are all he hears; no sound from behind the door reaches out, though faint light seeps from its lower edge.

It's not until he pushes the door open and enters the sublevel bar that he realizes he was expecting something, after all. Something darker, something more colorful. The locals, probably regulars, turn to give him a perfunctory look, gazes glancing off him as they look away again without interest. Everyone except for the bartender: when their eyes meet, Matthew feels the tug, as natural as gravity.

He takes a seat at the corner end of the bar, hooking his feet under the rung on the stool as he settles himself, and leans forward to fold his arms along the bar top. As the bartender takes a first step towards him, someone calls for service. With a quick smile for Matthew and a finger asking him to wait, the bartender turns back to pull a pint.

Even though it's too late for the bartender to see, Matthew nods. He brings his hand to his mouth, but his fingernails are too short to bite. Taking a cue from the classic black & white movie playing on the wall-mounted screen, Matthew rubs his own well-manicured thumb smoothly along his lips, imitating an epitome of cool he doesn't feel.

The smoke in the air is already clinging to the roof of his mouth, bringing traces of alcohol with it, trickling down his throat. He clears the tickle but the taste lingers, and he swallows.

"Sorry." The bartender, suddenly in front of him, brings Matthew out of his reverie. "What'll you have?"

You, Matthew thinks, though he knows he could never say such a thing. "Surprise me," he smiles instead, and receives a smile in return.

As the bartender pull down a cocktail shaker, Matthew laughs at himself for assuming he was going to get a beer. The bartender pours another alcohol into the first, blushing it pink, and Matthew reminds himself that he shouldn't make assumptions. He watches curiously as other liquids are added, shaken, and strained into a cocktail glass.

Matthew can't help noticing that there's clearly enough left in the shaker to fill a second glass, so when his is set before him, he says as casually as possible, "I don't like to drink alone."

With a smile, the bartender pours the rest into a glass for himself and raises it to Matthew in silent toast; their eyes don't leave each other.

It's sweet. That must be the pink, Matthew surmises. Whatever it is, it's good. Good enough to get half through before Matthew sets it down. "So." He smiles, channeling the fidget of his fingers to caress the glass base. "Do you have a name? I mean, what should I call you?"

The bartender leans forward, elbow on the bar now, chin resting in the cradle of his palm, a lick of hair falling across his face as he tilts his head, tipping his mouth up into a smile. A hot, familiar little flush come over Matthew. "Whatever you like," the bartender murmurs, his smile sliding up more on one side. "And what should I call you?"

"Oh. Um. Whatever you like, too."

"You'll always be Matthew to me," Alfred winks, leaning in conspiratorially.

Blushing again, Matthew wonders if they're still just flirting. He pushes his glasses up and considers saying something about how Alfred doesn't wear his anymore, but there doesn't seem a point to that observation. Stuck for something to say, Matthew occupies his mouth by downing the rest of his drink. Alfred matches him swallow for swallow, then clears the emptied glasses. He doesn't ask if Matthew would like another, or what he would like, but there are a couple of shot glasses between his fingers when he comes back, a bottle in the other hand, label obscured.

Curious about Alfred's incuriosity, Matthew finally asks, "Did Gilbert tell you I was coming?"

"The former Prussia?" Alfred's brow arches, but all he says is, "No." He hovers the mouth of the bottle, untipped, over the shot glasses.

Matthew shakes his head, politely declining the chaser, before blurting, "He's still Prussia, though."

Alfred turns to slot the unpoured bottle back into its place among the others. "But Prussia's not a country anymore, is it."

Just like the USA isn't—Matthew hears the unspoken words. He strains to hear a longing in them, but none reaches him. Except maybe his own; his former self is as lost as Alfred's, though he takes pride in being the United Territories of America & Canada now.

The nameplate was made up like that—"United Territories of America & Canada (UTAC)," gold lettering embossed on onyx in the world meeting template—when Alfred had come to Matthew and handed it to him.

Matthew's brow had furrowed. "What's this?"

"Your new name, if you want it. I mean, you can pick your own name," Alfred shrugged, "but I think this one is pretty good."

"I don't understand."

"I want you to have my land and people, Matt. I want you to take care of them for me."

The furrow deepened. "Are you going somewhere?"

"Yes. No." Alfred sighed. "I don't know. Yes."

Something clenched, cold, in Matthew's belly. "Alfred…?"

"Look, Matt, the world has made it clear: they don't need a superpower, they don't _want_ a superpower. But I don't know any other way to be!" Alfred's grin was wide, but the brightness wasn't there.

"You." It was so unthinkable, Matthew couldn't formulate the thought into words. "What are you saying, Alfred? You can't mean—" But the way Alfred was looking at him, Matthew saw that he did mean: Alfred was giving up being America. "Alfred, no—"

"Yes," Alfred cut him off, the grin gone. "I can't do this anymore, Matt. I just—I just can't do this anymore. I'm done with the world, and the world is done with me." Though his voice had dropped in the last words, the _exhaustion_ that came off of them was so palpable Matthew took a backwards step so it wouldn't knock him down.

"Please, Matt." Alfred looked into his eyes, letting Matthew look into him. "You're the only one I can trust."

It was unheard of. Unprecedented, so far as Matthew knew. He didn't even know if it was possible—though that had never stopped Alfred before. Matthew wanted to argue with him, reason with him; but ever since he was a kid, it was always the case that when Alfred made up his mind and more importantly his heart, that was that.

It wasn't fair, what Alfred was asking him.

But then, so little is ever fair. Helplessly, Matthew nodded.

The smile that came to Alfred's face then didn't have his familiar radiance, but it was genuine. "You're going to be great, Matt. Just trust yourself. Don't let—don't let anyone tell you what to do."

"Okay," Matthew said. Then: "Alfred…what should I do?"

He said it to make Alfred laugh, which it did; but he also wanted to know.

"Just be yourself, Matt." Alfred reached out to ruffle Matthew's hair, the last time they would ever touch. "You've always been a good ally, a good neighbor. Keep doing that."

Matthew studied Alfred's face as Alfred turned from him. "Okay," he said at last.

"Oh, hey," Alfred said, still in profile, "take care of my boss, will you? He's a good boss."

Even though that was all Alfred said, Matthew heard all the wordless emotion in his voice. "I will."

They sat together in silence for a long time, watching colors spread out as the sun sank towards the horizon.

"So there will be no more America," Matthew said.

"No," Alfred agreed quietly. Then: "But there's still the Americas."

Silence fell over them again as the remnants of sunlight yielded the sky to night. Those were the last words Alfred said to Matthew before he disappeared into that night.

A world-wide depression had added to the tumult and uncertainty left in the wake of Alfred's disappearance. But Matthew followed the plan Alfred had laid out in hints: he became the United Territories of America & Canada, and then by being a good neighbor and reaching out, he became one of the founding nations of the Union of the Americas. Through the UA, he helped the world find its feet again. He is now one of the most visible Nations on this beautiful planet. He is proud of what he's done with the trust Alfred placed in him; he has hoped for Alfred to be proud, too.

As it turned out, Matthew wasn't the only one Alfred trusted. Some time after Alfred abdicated his role as a Nation, there were rumors that Gilbert and Alfred had been seen together; some started referring to them as The Awesome Coalition of Awesome Former Countries. Gilbert never called it that. In fact, he never talked about Alfred at all, and Matthew was starting to think the stories about Alfred keeping in touch with Gilbert weren't true, after all.

But then, for no reason Matthew can determine, Gilbert finally decide to trust—or pity—Matthew enough to tell him where to find Alfred, or at least the most recent address he had for Alfred. So here Matthew is.

Matthew knows he should bite his tongue now, but his teeth are too slow to catch the words: "I'm glad you're here."

Even though Alfred is looking right at him when Matthew says it, he gives no indication he's heard. He turns away, and Matthew's heart sinks.

Then Alfred leans over the bar and calls to someone out of Matthew's peripheral vision that he's taking his break. "Let's go out back," Alfred says, looking at him again, smiling at him again.

Instead of returning to its rightful place in his chest, Matthew's heart flutters in his belly.

Alfred leads him down a narrow back passage and out into an alley. The air hits them, cooler, but not fresher. A dumpster is on one side of the door so they go as far to the other side as light permits, until it drifts into shadow. There's a wad of bubblegum where they stop, chewed up and spat out, drained of its sweetness, sapped of its pink.

Matthew toes the gum. Not fully hardened, it sticks a little, trying to come with him as he pulls away. He drags his foot along the bitumen, stretching and scraping the clinging strand of gum. He told Gilbert that he just needed to see with his own eyes that Alfred was all right, but that's not all there is to it. He wonders if Gilbert knows that; he wonders if that's why Gilbert finally told him.

He looks up and finds Alfred's eyes on him. He wants to push the lock of hair curving across Alfred's forehead upright, as it should be, but he knows it doesn't go like that anymore. Alfred is looking at him and Matthew knows Alfred is giving him a chance, and if Matthew doesn't speak now, Alfred is going to turn around and walk away. He might walk away even if Matthew does speak, but Matthew needs to take the chance now.

"I didn't try for anything back when you were—back then, because I didn't want to ruin our friendship. But we're not friends now, really." He doesn't say anything about Alfred walking away from everything and everyone without a backward glance all those years ago. He doesn't say anything about how Alfred didn't have to be alone, how Alfred had _him_ , or could have. Matthew doesn't let those words form on his tongue because they'd be bitter in his mouth, and even though there's no sweetness now, Matthew doesn't want the taint of bitterness, no matter how this turns out. "So if we're not going to be friends anyhow," he continues evenly, "I'd at least like a night with you, just one, before I never see you again."

He's gone beyond this point in imagination, but not in anticipation. So he doesn't know what he's expecting right now—but it's not for Alfred to say, "All right," and push him up against the wall. "Like this?" Alfred kisses him; then flips them so his own back is to the wall, pulls Matthew to him, kisses him again: "Or this?"

Pressing in, Matthew pushes Alfred a little more, kisses him more. His tongue traces Alfred's parted lips before venturing inside. Alfred's tongue licks at his as Matthew explores his mouth, his teeth, the soft inner walls, finally twining with Alfred in the wet heat.

Heat radiates between them, through their clothing; Matthew can feel how hot and hard he is, himself—and Alfred, too. He wants to really feel Alfred. Going under Alfred's shirt, he presses a hand to his belly and slides it up over smooth skin, muscles rippling beneath his fingers and palm, sharing warm sighs. Matthew wants to make Alfred moan. He rubs his thumb over Alfred's nipple, feeling it harden with his touch: pinch and pull, and Alfred grunts, arches. And Matthew's hand slips away down as he presses himself to Alfred, presses Alfred to the wall, hard, harder.

Alfred widens his stance, and Matthew gets his thigh between Alfred's legs, nudging, grinding; they're grinding together, fervent rhythm, silence punctuated by more soft moans and sighs, by the rustle of hair and fingers over ears; fingers silent again on skin. Matthew's hand has fallen to Alfred's hip, his finger curving inside Alfred's waistband for more bare skin. More, finger sliding along inside to the front and he doesn't take his mouth off Alfred's as he undoes the button, drags the zip down; hand inside, touching, curling around Alfred's cock, more, oh _more_. He doesn't stroke, he just holds Alfred, and wants to hold him more. Matthew slants so Alfred's lower lip rests between both of his, not kissing, just touching, Matthew holding him like this.

Then Matthew slides down, keeping his eyes closed until he's on his knees. He gazes up at Alfred, who watches him with half-lidded eyes. Matthew holds the gaze as his mouth follows his hand to Alfred's cock and kisses him openmouthed, swiping his tongue flatly across the head; and again, tongue tip delving shallowly into the slit, lapping up precome. Alfred's fingers thread through his hair, massaging his skull as Matthew massages Alfred's cockhead.

He goes down a little more as he lets go, using both hands to tug Alfred's jeans, exposing him to mid-thigh. He cups Alfred's sac, his other hand curled back at the base of Alfred's cock; eyes closed, he holds Alfred in his mouth, fondling Alfred's balls, feeling and almost tasting the vibrations of pleasure, the pulse of Alfred's cock against his tongue. Matthew hums his own pleasure, coating Alfred's cock in reverberation, and Alfred jerks, going into him a little more, and Matthew takes him even deeper. His cheeks hollow with the suction, slick soft friction of Alfred's head along the roof of his mouth and over his tongue as he slides down and up and down Alfred's cock, caressing the underside with his tongue, tracing the thickened veins, swirling around the tip, letting it fill him as it nudges the back of his throat.

Savoring the taste and texture and heavy scent, the heat and length and pulse of Alfred, Matthew opens his eyes again. He doesn't know when he closed them because he wanted them open the whole time; they must have slipped shut, but he's open now and he gazes up through the night at Alfred, and their eyes meet and Alfred's fingers tighten in Matthew's hair. The rhythm hitches as Matthew slackens and lets Alfred tug and coax him into the pace he wants.

Once he has it, Matthew reaches for himself, fumbles his jeans open, wraps around himself and smoothly begins stroking off to Alfred's rhythm. When he feels Alfred close to the edge, Matthew takes him all the way: takes Alfred down into his throat, swallowing snug around him, milking Alfred's cock with his throat as Alfred comes. He releases Alfred back up into his mouth, holds him gently against the backs of his teeth, licking the last spurts as he spills himself over his closed fist.

They stay like that for another moment.

Then Matthew moves, Alfred's cock slips from his mouth, and his knee sticks to the ground but comes free as he rises. Both of them are still undone, Matthew's hand in his pants, cradling his softening cock, his other arm slipping around Alfred's waist as he stands. He leans into Alfred, face pressed against his neck, inhaling the scent of him, sweat, alcohol tinged, candle wax and citrus and smoke in his hair, natural musk beneath it all. Just Alfred underneath. Matthew breathes in, trying to block out the alley. Trying not to think about how that was it, that was all. It's not that he's unsatisfied, exactly; this is what he came for, after all, and he did come. It's just, he's wanted this so badly, for so long; and now it's over, and it happened in a back alley, like some casual encounter.

Maybe that's all it really is. They're physically here together in this moment, but Alfred still feels so far from him, he's still gone somewhere Matthew can't find him.

And then Alfred's mouth is at his ear, and Matthew unconsciously tilts to be nuzzled. But Alfred doesn't nuzzle him: "Where are you staying?"

Matthew doesn't move. Then he turns just enough to speak clearly. He names his hotel, and Alfred says, "Yeah, I know where that is. I'm off at two tonight."

Feeling the gathering of Alfred's muscles as he gets ready to move, Matthew steps back before Alfred needs to tell him to. He gives Alfred his room number, and Alfred zips himself up, says all right with a grin, turns and goes back inside.

Matthew leans against the wall before doing himself up. Then he follows the alley to the street, brushing the pad of his thumb over lips tender and swollen.

 

Matthew thought to take a nap while he waited, so the waiting wouldn't feel so much like what it was, but even after the soothing steam and wet heat of the shower, neither his mind nor his body wanted rest. He tried amusing himself with the hundreds of available entertainment channels, but what he really needed was a physical distraction. So after a while, he decided to get the gum from the alley out of his trousers.

So now he's sitting in his button-down shirt and boxers, clean trousers taken off and refolded for tomorrow, soiled ones laid out on the desk, ice melting in the bucket beside them. He has frozen the pink, smashed it, and now he's picking off and throwing out shattered pink shards.

A soft knock comes at the door; so soft, he's glad he wasn't asleep or he might have missed it. He pulls the trousers on again, rubbing at the spot. Anticipation like adrenaline floods him with each step towards the door.

Alfred smiles, the hand that had knocked still curled in a loose fist at his side. His hair is damp and his clothes are different. Charmed, Matthew smiles, too.

Before he can offer Alfred anything, they're kissing again. Matthew drinks in the dampness of Alfred's hair through his fingers, the heat of his breath, his mouth, the moist sighs and moans of their kissing. No words, just kissing and touching, standing in the middle of the room, no one against the wall this time, just pushed up against each other, legs dovetailing, cocks rubbing hotly against each other through layers, touching each other through layers.

And then the layers are still there but Alfred has gone inside them, his hands are inside Matthew's trousers, cupping his bare ass, pulling Matthew to him; and Matthew goes, pushes into the pull, slides his own hands down the back of Alfred's jeans, kneading him. Matthew can't help noticing the height difference. He likes it, because he's always thought of Alfred as taller, so this mesh with reality is good. It's real, it's really Alfred. Matthew is going to come if he thinks about how this is Alfred, here, with him, hot and hard and soft and damp against him.

They're going so fast, and Matthew doesn't want time to catch up with them, to bring them out of night into morning too quickly. Needing to slow down, he turns to nuzzle Alfred's neck, but he winds up with a mouthful of cotton blend and has to take one hand out of the back of Alfred's pants to pull the tee out of the way so he can nip and lick Alfred's skin. Palm against Alfred's bare throat, he feels the silent purr vibrating inside, kisses it through Alfred's skin.

Matthew wants more, more vibration and more skin, and _more_. His other hand slides around front under Alfred's shirt, pushing it up as he caresses the expanse of Alfred's torso, but it's not enough, it needs to come off—he needs Alfred naked.

Matthew pulls out of the kiss. He steps back and starts undressing Alfred, not ripping his clothes off but taking care with them, with him. He's careful as he lifts Alfred's arms, directs them upward, draws the tee-shirt off overhead and lets it drop to the floor as he runs his fingers through Alfred's hair, smoothing it, shaping that always-errant lock as it curves down into Alfred's face.

"I bet you played with dolls when you were a kid," Alfred says. "Not just when we were little. After that, too. I bet you still do." There's no judgment, no mockery.

Matthew doesn't say anything in response. He doesn't know what to make of it, if it's Alfred's awkward way of starting conversation or if it means something more to Alfred. Another Matthew, the one Alfred used to know, would have tried to find out.

This Matthew, the one who only has what's left of this one night to be with Alfred, doesn't. He just smiles and keeps undressing Alfred. Kissing him, Matthew undoes the belt buckle, sliding the belt through the loops even though it's not necessary, elongating the moment. He drops to his knees to untie Alfred's laces, coaxing Alfred's feet up one at a time as he slips the shoes off, the socks, too. Still kneeling as he draws Alfred's trousers down, Matthew closes his eyes as he touches his lips to the glisten of Alfred's cockhead. Then he stands as he leads Alfred out of the pooled clothing, undressing himself with smooth expedience as he guides them to the bed.

Lying back, Matthew brings Alfred with him, then rolls Alfred onto his back and kisses him. As they kiss, Alfred's hands roam Matthew's body and Matthew arches into the touches, moaning into Alfred's mouth. It's close to too much again, and Matthew raises up, disentangling his limbs from Alfred's. Leaning down, he kisses Alfred again, slowly and deeply, only their mouths touching. He takes his time as he kisses his way across Alfred's body, touching with gaze and fingers, marveling with tongue and lips and teeth, reveling with skin, rubbing his cheek lightly on Alfred's torso as he comes to rest, gazing at Alfred's cock, the tantalizing glimmer of precome.

Matthew shifts between Alfred's legs, kneels up and gazes down at him, the sheen of sweat, skin glistening in the play of light with each breath and shiver. He looks at Alfred, naked, Alfred's body laid out before him: yes, he's gained height, but now it's evident that Alfred has lost bulk since the last time Matthew saw him. He's not gaunt, his musculature is exquisitely defined; he's just stripped down, stripped of everything extraneous. Matthew has undressed him, but he can't strip Alfred more than Alfred has already stripped himself.

"Do you want to come on me?"

Alfred's words catch Matthew's gaze. His belly clenches, his breath tangles, he holds Alfred's gaze, but he doesn't say anything.

"Or inside me?"

Now Matthew's held breath comes out a shuddery sigh, and Alfred smiles. "Okay, inside, yeah. Fuck me, Matt," his legs falling open more, hips canting up, "come on and fuck me."

Matthew reaches for the lubricant under the other pillow, slicks himself up, glosses Alfred's cleft. Hand under Alfred's hips, Matthew urges him to tilt up again, more, then slides the spare pillow beneath his ass. A little more lube, and Matthew rubs tiny wet circles against Alfred's hole; then he pushes, slick pressure, as Alfred's muscles suck him in. Matthew begins fingering him, coating him inside, stretching and opening him, watching his own fingers going in and out, a little deeper, a little more, and more of them.

Alfred has lost none of the impossible limberness he used to have when they were kids; it's obscenely manifest now. Every time Matthew touches Alfred's leg, wanting to push him open a little more, Alfred is already moving himself. Opening more, more open than Matthew can push. And Matthew, just—he wants to be the one to do it. He wants to open Alfred up; he wants Alfred to let him.

Alfred is watching him: Matthew feels Alfred's eyes on his face, even when he drops his own gaze to his hands, his fingers inside Alfred, his other hand splayed on Alfred's thigh.

When he slips the fourth finger in, that should be too much. But he feels Alfred's body adjust to accommodate him with the barest hitch. Open, so fucking open. Matthew knows what he's going to do; he knows it's going to happen. He knows. He's looking at Alfred's face, and he knows Alfred knows, too.

"Do you want to break me?" Alfred says sit like it's just a question, a normal question you ask every day. And Matthew thinks that maybe for Alfred it is.

He shakes his head. He swallows, and the confession shivers up along his spine to come out with intent as naked as Alfred's skin, desire as naked as his own: "I just want to push you as far as you'll go."

"And then a little farther?" Alfred pushes back, pushes himself down on Matthew's fingers.

It's an invitation and a tease; it's a challenge. Matthew looks at himself touching Alfred, feels Alfred close around him. He wants to feel more; he wants to feel Alfred feeling it, too.

He hasn't answered yet. Alfred murmurs his name, and Matthew looks up to meet his eyes. He shivers at the sight, as he sees that Alfred _wants_ to be broken, to prove to himself that he isn't already. His eyes are telling Matthew so.

Matthew's going to show him.

He still has just the four fingers inside Alfred. He's felt the channel, found the second sphincter, knows the angle and direction of the curves to follow. He starts to withdraw, but Alfred clamps down around him. "Turn over," Matthew says. "It'll be better that way."

"It's better this way."

"It'll be easier for you," Matthew says.

And Alfred says, "I don't want it to be easy."

Matthew is still hesitating, and again Alfred says, "It's better this way. So we can—so you can see me."

"All right." Matthew starts to withdraw his fingers again, and again he feels the voluntary clamping down. "No, it's all right," he promises; requests, "let me." And Alfred, already yielding, giving himself over, does.

Matthew slathers on more lube, all over his hand, between his fingers; he pushes as much lube inside Alfred as he can with his fingers; then, tucking his thumb inside his fingers, against his palm, he pushes himself inside. Feeling the involuntary resistance of the inner sphincter, Matthew courts it with gentle fingers, massaging, widening his fingers slightly as Alfred relaxes again and more. His fingers slide in, out a little, in a little more, mesmerizing Alfred's body with the easy rhythm. Matthew watches his hand, glances up, and sees Alfred watching, too; their eyes don't meet, but they're joined in their mutual gaze, connected where their bodies meet.

In and out and in, slide~caressing, coaxing: and then the involuntary acceptance, opening: Alfred opens, and Matthew fills him. His hand rests inside Alfred to the wrist. "All right?"

"Yeah," Alfred says, and Matthew begins to move again. As he goes deeper, following the curvature, he lets Alfred's body fold his fingers over his thumb into a natural fist.

He's curled inside Alfred, Alfred so hot and close around him, and Matthew shimmies in him, vibrates his fist without moving it, and Alfred vibrates around him, all over, gasps vibrations, mouth coming open, eyes coming closed. Matthew twists, his wrist rubbing against the ring of muscle, his fist stroking deeper inside; tendrils of vibration wend from Alfred to Matthew's fingers, crawl pleasurably up his arm, slide down his spine; they shiver together.

Watching Alfred's face, Matthew realizes Alfred's eyes aren't really closed. Alfred is looking across his own body at his belly, and Matthew looks, too—he watches his hand moving inside Alfred, sheen on his skin become a gloss, the slick slide of skin over muscles, over Alfred's and his own: he can see the shape of his hand, himself inside Alfred. He looks up to watch Alfred watching. Opening and closing his fist slightly, he increases the internal pressure, and watches the feeling of fullness flicker across Alfred's face.

Alfred's breathing is becoming shallow and erratic, he's in danger of forgetting to breathe, and Matthew wants to reach in farther, to go up and massage Alfred's lungs, to breathe for Alfred with his fingers. It seems possible in here, where he is with Alfred; but in the world their bodies are still in, with the part of him that's still there, Matthew knows it is not. So he tries to reach Alfred from outside, with words: "Breathe, Alfred. You have to breathe." Alfred doesn't open his eyes, and Matthew doesn't know if he has heard. He starts to speak again—but then Alfred steadies, he's breathing, yes; and Matthew understands that there is no inside and outside anymore, not right now; right now, in this moment, it's just them. It's all them.

And it comes to Matthew in words: he doesn't want to break Alfred. He wants to show him he's not broken, not by breaking him or trying to, not by trying to put him together and failing, but by filling him. He wants to fill Alfred so full that Alfred will feel how he's not broken. It's not until Matthew feels it happening that the words for what he wants find him; and then the words are gone, all words are gone, they're far beyond words. Matthew is becoming his hand—it's like his whole self is inside Alfred, taken wholly inside by Alfred, existing in the shimmering pulse and heat of Alfred.

Matthew looks, and sees himself inside Alfred: he's aware that he's looking at himself, seeing himself from a different place than he's feeling himself, and he goes dizzy with dissonance, inside and outside simultaneously, impossibly occupying more than one space at the same time;

And then everything goes inside-out:

Edges melt, blurring and bleeding into each other, and they fall from the melted edges; crossed boundaries cease to exist entirely, and they're beyond themselves, they're in a new space, they _are_ a new space, infinite...

They're... they are...

 _Oh,_ they _are_.

They are become.

…And they become Matthew and Alfred again.

Matthew is breathing and Alfred is breathing, too, on his own, to his own rhythm as Matthew slowly withdraws himself, gently as possible, from Alfred's raw, overstimulated body.

When they've separated completely, Matthew stretches and curls beside Alfred, and they lie together for a moment of indefinite time, their bodies touching, aftershocks gentling into afterglow; another indefinite moment; and then Matthew's mouth wordlessly finds Alfred's cheek before he gets up.

In the bathroom, he cleans the aftermath mess coating his hand, some pink mixed in and he tilts to examine it closely: definitely just a little bit of pink, and that's all right. He wipes it off with the rest, washes up, then dampens a couple of clean towels and brings them out to Alfred.

Alfred is still on his back, his arm over his eyes now, as if shielding himself from brightness.

Matthew wants to see Alfred's eyes. He could if he touched Alfred's hand.

He touches everywhere else, soothes Alfred with words and soft sounds as he gently swabs and strokes him clean, reading Alfred's body, talking to him even though Alfred is not saying anything yet. Matthew pulls the pillow from beneath Alfred, lowers Alfred to the warm, dry covers; lowers himself beside Alfred, touching a fresh towel to Alfred's brow. Alfred takes his hand away, and Matthew sees that the brightness is in Alfred's eyes, a little of that wet brightness spilled out onto his skin.

Matthew doesn't touch Alfred's tears. He caresses Alfred's brow, strokes his hair. Morning sun bleeds through a crack in the heavy curtains where they're imperfectly joined.

"You do, don't you?" Alfred's voice comes out little more than a whisper.

Matthew looks at him.

"You play with dolls, don't you?"

Something about it makes Matthew shiver, makes his throat swell so he can't respond right away. In fact, he does play with dolls. But even as a kid, Matthew was always careful with his toys, he was not one of those children who broke everything. And he hasn't broken Alfred now. But he doesn't want Alfred to think of himself that way at all, as something to be played with, broken or just forgotten about, or kept around just for play.

Alfred's eyes, closed when he said it, stay closed; Matthew looks at him another moment, still caressing, and then says, "Yeah. I do."

Alfred nods, swallows, keeps his eyes closed.

It doesn't seem like Alfred is making fun of him, but Matthew doesn't know what to say. So he kisses Alfred. Just touches his lips to Alfred's; feels the light pressure of Alfred's lips in return.

Alfred shifts towards him when the kiss breaks. "Did you come?"

"Yeah." Matthew sighs as Alfred's fingers graze lightly along the soft curl of his cock. Too spent to go again this soon, Matthew simply luxuriates in the gentle petting, a soundless purr vibrating in his throat. He brushes soft vibrations onto Alfred's lips with his own, and they're both quiet again. Matthew's floating, anchored by Alfred's hand resting on his belly, eyes closed as he memorizes Alfred with his other senses, Alfred's breathing rhythms, his weight and warmth.

He feels Alfred stir. Matthew doesn't know if he's going to get up, but he doesn't want Alfred to; he'd not ready yet, he hasn't memorized everything yet. Maybe he shouldn't, though. Maybe the memories will be worse than the fantasies have been. But Matthew wants more of this moment, where memory and fantasy have met, where they are meeting still.

"You can stay," he says. "I have the room for another few hours."

Alfred nods, and Matthew feels him settle again. Settles himself again, too, and again beside Alfred floats.

 

Matthew doesn't remember dozing off, but he awakens. Alfred is still asleep beside him, and Matthew wants to lie here watching Alfred sleep; but he knows it's dangerous to indulge himself like that. So he gets out of bed and lays out his clothing before going to shower.

Done lathering and rinsing, Matthew stands under the spray for a few extra minutes, letting it wash over him, relaxing himself, relaxing with himself. If anything, this night has raised more questions than it has answered. Instead of thinking about them, he meditates on the heat itself.

When he comes out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist, he finds Alfred awake. Sitting on the bed, already dressed.

"Shower's free, if you want."

Alfred shakes his head. "I'll have one at home."

Matthew nods and goes over to his clothing. It seems strange to be shy now, after all that's come before, but he doesn't know if he should drop the towel and get dressed in front of Alfred. Stalling for time, he pretends to rummage one-handed for something in his mostly empty bag.

Then Alfred gets off the bed, comes over, takes the shirt out of Matthew's hand, and starts dressing him. Alfred's not nearly as deft at it as Matthew was in undressing him the night before; there are awkward catches and hitches as he moves Matthew into the clothing, missing some of the helpful physical cues Matthew is giving him.

And Matthew realizes that Alfred isn't the doll. That he himself, _Matthew_ is the doll. That Alfred doesn't know how to play anymore; that he's afraid of doing the breaking, not of being broken.

Matthew smiles, chokes on the smile a little; choked up and smiling, he lets Alfred dress him.

When Alfred is done, he smoothes Matthew's shirt, his lapels, and steps back to give him a once over. Turning to the vase of roses, he draws out an autumn damask, snaps the stem and slots the dark pink blossom into Matthew's buttonhole. "There," he says with touch and small smile.

In the elevator down, Alfred reads a headline from the newspaper someone has discarded in the corner. "The Union of the Americas is doing really well, huh?" A hint of his old grin shines at the corner of Alfred's mouth.

"Yes. Thriving." Matthew grins, too. "Your old boss is the current chairperson. He's doing a bang-up job."

Alfred's grin gets a shade brighter as his gaze slides away into memory. "He was a good boss."

Seeing Alfred glance at the newspaper again, Matthew says impulsively, "It's what you wanted, isn't it?" When Alfred turns to him, Matthew says, "I mean, it was your plan…"

Alfred shakes his head, but he doesn't deny it. Instead, he only says, "I wasn't the one for it. It was never going to be me."

It was always you, Matthew wants to say. But Alfred is still smiling, so Matthew doesn't say anything.

They reach the lobby and walk through it wordlessly. As they wait for Matthew's car outside, Matthew breaks the smiling silence to ask Alfred if they're friends now.

"No less than we were before," Alfred says, and Matthew swallows his sigh, feels it against his lung. He didn't know before, and he still doesn't know; he just really doesn't know what anything means or is anymore.

The car arrives and they look at each other, and Matthew smiles as best he can. "Well, I guess this is goodbye."

"Bye, Matthew." Alfred gets the door for him.

Matthew realizes he's been caught hoping again. He's been telling himself not to hope, trying to tamp it down so he can't get hurt by it again; but when Alfred says goodbye, Matthew feels how high he'd gotten on hope by how much he sinks now into his own belly. He gets in the car without another word, because what word could there possibly be? He pulls the door shut—

But there's resistance; it doesn't close. He looks up, and Alfred still has his hand on the door, holding it open. "I don't know how long I'll stick around here," he says. "So ask Gilbert again. If you want."

"I will." Matthew smiles, feeling Alfred's words in his blood, his blood warm in his heart and in his veins, his skin blood-warmed.

Alfred drops his gaze, drops his hand and lets go so Matthew can shut the door himself.

The car pulls away from the curb, and Matthew is still smiling. He tells himself not to look back, don't look back. Don't ruin it by looking back and seeing that Alfred is already gone.

Matthew brushes the petals across his lips. He turns to the back window and looks:

And their eyes meet, for Alfred— _oh_ , Alfred is still there.

**Author's Note:**

> The thumb along the lips was a trademark move of Humphrey Bogart, who starred in _Casablanca_ (among many other films), wherein he uttered the famous line, "Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine."
> 
> The drink Alfred serves Matthew is called "Trust." It's made with gin and Grand Marnier Rouge (which gives it the pink).
> 
> Although there doesn't seem to be a consensus on the exact meaning of pink roses ("friendship" and "secret love" were the most common suggestions), the sites I consulted did agree that a single rose of any color means thank you.


End file.
